Unbelievaranchers No More

Many apologies for the lateness of this post. Suffice to say - we ain't farmers no more, no sir.

I mean, all any of us know about farming may be summed up in two pictures.

So what on earth possessed us to even attempt it? We had some sort of earthy collective notion that it would be some sort of noble cause, a way of thanking Mother Earth for her endless bounty and making ourselves look cool and altruistic at the same time. Not to mention strong and manly, yet caring. Ladies love that.

NOT one of us.

Nope, as soon as we realised the stress of what we were up against - the early mornings, the feeding, the mucking out (pee-yew!), the thankless tilling of soil from dawn till dusk with nary a breadcrust to munch on at snacktimes, we knew we were onto a loser.

What we couldn't figure out was where the consignment of goats came from in the first place. We scratched our heads for four, five minutes before Michael said," I really don't care where they came from. Sure they're cute lil boogers, but they have got to go. They're eating us out of a wardrobe full of primo threads!"

But where to send them? Again, we put our heads together. But Michael cut through the clouded thinking once more with, "I don't care! Just send'em to someone we really hate."

At this, Clark's eyes lit up. "PETIT!"

He was on the phone to the truck guys within 30 seconds, and one hour later, the goats were loaded onto the truck and gone.

What Henri Petit, that foul infant pipe smoker, made of them is no concern of ours.

Oops.

And the farm? Gone to rack and ruin.

Baaaaaaaaaad News part 2

Before one of us could even comment on how peaceful a place called "Serenity Acres" must be, we heard the "Beep...Beep...Beep..." of trucks backing up. That was followed in quick order by the "Bleat...Bleat...Bleat..." of animals loaded onto those trucks. A LOT of bleating as in A LOT of animals, all of them goats. Truck after truck lined up to offload on our property. So many! We couldn't count the trucks, let alone the individual animals. What the hell was going on??
"What the hell is going on??", asked Michael. The driver of the lead truck said, "We have your livestock delivery, fellas. Where do you want us to leave it all? Because we thought we'd just open the tailgate and let them out all over the place and then drive off. But that was before we realized you were actually here." "No, no, no, don't do that!", Jeff yelled as the drivers of the other trucks did exactly that. I piped up with, "There must be some mistake. We didn't order any livestock. Why would we?" The lead driver was pushing the last goat out of the back of his truck as he answered, "Who knows? We just drive the trucks. Livestock today, furniture tomorrow, who knows the day after that, y'know?" As he hopped into the cab of his truck and drove off, leading the others, Michael asked, "Is that it? Do we need to sign something or...? No? Okay, I guess." It was barnyard bedlam! Goats everywhere. But they were pretty adorable and a couple of them came right over and nuzzled us affectionately
I shrugged my shoulders and said, "Well, I guess we're in charge of all these animals now. I always wanted to be a farmer."
Jeff said, "Yeah, this is no big deal. We can make this work. Unbelievaranchers!"
Michael sighed and said, "I suppose we could...". He paused, his thoughts interrupted by the sight of one of the goats munching on his very favorite macrame vests which he was wearing at the time. He clenched his fists as his eyes glowed like embers, He turned to us and growled, "This...shall not stand."

R.I.P, vesty

Baaaaaaaaaad News?

All three of us just got back from a quick weekend get away in beautiful Cabo San Lucas. (A few of the Unbelieva-Babes "convinced" us we needed a little R&R down Mexico way.) Naturally, a terrific time was had by all.

But, on return to our headquarters, we discovered this:

Being a Sunday evening, there wasn't much we could do. We checked the Base for anything unusual - everything seemed in order, no worries there. So we rolled on over to the local diner for pie and coffee to discuss the matter.

Who was behind it? Was it some sort of joke? And ... goats? Really?

Our only real lead was on the bottom of the sign: serenityacresnow.com.

And that's when things got strange ...

Unraveling the Gingervator's scheme

As is usually the case when we're chasing down bad guys, we caught up to Bernard "The Gingervator" Bigyott on the roof of one of the office buildings downtown (Aside: Why do bad guys always run into buildings, charge up flight after flight of stairs until they reach the the roof, where they suddenly realize there's nowhere to go? What did they expect?). And, as is also usually the case, he was only too eager to spill his guts (seriously, we didn't even have to ask).

B"G"B: Yeah, I teamed up with Carrot Top. Of course I did! Don't you see the inherent genius in my plan? People loathe that guy. He's a prop comic! Next to him, I couldn't help but look good enough to generate enough good will to re-launch my modelling career.
Me: I have to admit, there's a certain logic there.
Jeff: Yeah, there's nobody in entertainment hated more than prop comics.
Michael: That's true. Well, except maybe mimes.
B"G"B: Mimes?
Me: Ooh yeah, people really hate mimes.
Jeff: And clowns.
Michael: Ugh. Don't get me started on clowns.
B"G"B: Wait...
Me: And of course, ventriloquists.
Jeff: Yuck!
Michael: The worst!
B"G"B: Hey...
Me: So creepy!
Jeff: Jugglers.
Michael: Stilt walkers.
B"G"B: Come on!
Me: Girls with ukuleles.
Jeff: Magicians.
Michael: Puppeteers.
B"G"B: ...
Me: Nuns.
Jeff: Yeah! Wait...what?
Michael: Nuns aren't entertainers.
B"G"B: Nuns?
Me: They're street performers!
Jeff: Welllll....
Michael: Yeah, I can kinda see that. I'll allow it.
B"G"B: Um, hello? What about me?
Me: Huh? Oh yeah, of course everybody hates you.
Jeff: Yeah, just look at you. You're downright offensive on every possible aesthetic level.
Michael: You're truly hideous and you inspire a deep, seething hatred and unrelenting sadness upon the mere sight of your visage.
B"G"B: Yeah, yeah, yeah. So am I under arrest here or what?
Me: Arrest? No, we kick ass. We don't arrest people.
Jeff: We just wanted to tell you to stop sending us mail.
Michael: And leave Carrot Top alone. He hired us to let you know that you creep him out.
B"G"B: (under his breath) Wait 'til you all meet my sister!

A Rather Disturbing Discovery

As Jeff mentioned last post:

"... the communiques came in the form of threats, either via phone or on notes hand-delivered to our mailbox. We never really took them seriously, believing them to merely be the diseased ramblings of a messed-up mind. That is, until he started to get serious, personal and dangerous."

Well ... sort of. 

The phone calls? We blew them off as pranks. Because that's what they were ... poor ones, too. They weren't the least bit serious. (And, if memory serves, Jeff even used one as a headquarters answering machine message once.)

But the notes were a different matter all together.

They began arriving more frequently at the Unbelieva-base ... and annoyingly so. It came to the point of our Unbelieva-base mail boy Kip alerting us to their voluminousness:

"Hey guys? We got 34 letters and postcards from Bernie this week. The Stiletto Flats post office is starting to complain they're working too hard and want us to nip this in the bud ..."

Things were unusually quiet on the ne'er-do-well front so we decided to do some digging on Bernie.

Most of what we discovered on the guy was fluff. Stuff and nonsense. The blather of a disgruntled, whiny, self-absorbed little peon who thinks he hadn't gotten his due in life. 

But ... there was one thing we found that got us to sit up straight in our chairs.

An association.

A disturbing association.

A disturbing association with a known deviant.

Scott Thompson.

Better known as ...

... Carrot Top.

Clark will fill you in ...

The Case Of The Gingervator

Back in the day there was a young boy with ginger hair that we Unbelievables became acquainted with through the magazine photoshoots and catalogue modelling jobs we had. His name was Bernie Bigyott, the son of wealthy banker Bernard Bigyott Sr. and his wife Iona. He was jealous of our good looks and our style, grace and elan, not to mention our success with the ladies. He blamed it on people not understanding him, but we all knew it was because he was a strange-looking redheaded kid.

I mean, what's with that weird facial expression? I know he's meant to be licking his lips, but it looks like he's trying to use his tongue to pick boogers. Really.

Things didn't improve when he got older. His Bacardi advert was to be his last. The decision to grow a 'tache may have been his undoing.

Holy Hell.

Well, he blamed it on us, of course. we were still getting plenty of offers when they were drying up for him. And all this became a little too much to bear. He sank deeper into depression and finally snapped, becoming a bitter and twisted individual hell-bent on revenge... on us. Bernie renamed himself the Gingervator (in homage to his early work, see above) and retreated Unabomber-style to a remote location where he was at liberty to plot and scheme 24/7. 

Suffice it to say, Bernie "The Gingervator" Bigyott was disowned by his family and only very occasionally did anyone hear from him. it was usually us, and the communiques came in the form of threats, either via phone or on notes hand-delivered to our mailbox. We never really took them seriously, believing them to merely be the diseased ramblings of a messed-up mind. That is, until he started to get serious, personal and dangerous. 

I'll leave it to Michael and Clark to let you know what became of The Gingervator. All I will say is that it is serious gut-wrenching, page-turning stuff, and you'll need more than a glass of Canada Dry to recover from it.

Ciao...

Fight The (Cranky) Powers That Be

When I saw Clark begin this week's theme, an automatic sigh came rushing out of me and I could feel a "grump" forming low in my stomach.

No one wants to hear about The Unbelievables' personal quirks! Especially when they take downward turns and our moods become less than exuberant.

But then I thought: "Of course they do! Folks need to hear we're not always perfect!" (Well ... beside our perfect fashion sense, that is ...)

The world does indeed need to hear about stuff like this. Because we're human, too. Each of us get in a funk here and there. And if, by relating some of our solutions to defunking ourselves, our tales aid in any way to the betterment of John and Jane Q. Public out there then we're doing our responsible duty.

Because it's practically a crime to be sullen and surly. You've heard it takes more effort to be crabby than cheerful, haven't you? It's true. More muscles are involved when you're churlish, it takes unnecessary and wasted power to maintain that testiness and no one wants to be around you if you're going to snap their heads off. It's a whole lot easier to put on a happy face.

So ... when I saw where Clark was going I wasn't pleased in the least. But Jeff brought up the rear and saved the day in grand fashion! It was a swift rescue from disgruntledness when he stated the obvious, my first law.

And its "au natural" equal and opposite mood-changer: Pantslessness.

Zounds! The freedom! The joy! The abandonment of constraint! The free rein of full swing! (So to speak.)

To wit, I am unable to convey the pure exhilaration of going "pants-free" via mere words. They couldn't possibly do justice to the feeling. It's something you have to experience. The euphoria you feel ... the elation of it all automatically wipes your foul mood into nothing. Drop "trou" and you immediately forget the fact you were in a foul mood to begin with.

Here's the simple solution for you if you find yourself becoming irrational of if you are stuck right smack dab in the middle of "non compos mentis" ...

• 1) Stand in front of a mirror. (Any mirror will do but a full-length mirror will provide you with the full effect of enlightenment.) Make certain your legs are slightly apart.
• 2) Drop those pants to the ground. (Yes ... the underwear get relieved of their duty as well.)
• 3) Put your hands on your hips in a show of confidence.
• 4) Watch that lowdown mood instantly lift and that smile shine upon your face. << BOOM >>

Again: You're welcome, world.

(Side Note: If you decide to ramp things up and attempt some acrobatic trampoline moves sans pants and you've never done so previously, expect to become addicted to it. And with wild abandon.)

Unbelievably Cranky

So just what is it that will get the Unbelievables out of a funk? Aside from the love and adoration that come from being rock and roll stars, let's say.
Well, for every Unbelievable mood, there is an equal and opposite mood-changer. (That's Noble's First Law of Cantankerousness right there.) For each individual Unbelievable there is something that is guaranteed to enhance his outlook on life.

For Michael (whose law it is anyway), anything that presents him with the opportunity to go pantsless tends to do the trick, whether it be nude volleyball (he was All-American his sophomore year by the way), nude cookery (little tip here: no naked BBQing) or simply naked trampolining, the act of dropping trou will immediately lift his spirits.

However, only Michael will put on open-air public demonstrations of his nakey skills.

And Clark? He can be won over by the well-timed presentation of a nice piece of cake, pie or even cake-pie (pake, for the uninitiated), with a steaming mug of hot fresh coffee, preferably while behind the wheel of his precious 'Vette and in the lovely company of one or two Unbelievababes. We do realise that this sounds like rather a dangerous proposition (road safety and all that), however we should point out that generally speaking he just goes to sulk in the 'Vette in the garage and is usually not on the highway when he is in a sour mood. Something to do with biorhythms, he has been known to claim. Not good to drive while upset. On the whole, Michael and myself can get behind this idea (we wouldn't want Clark to make a cardinal driving error due to his crankiness, and damage the motor, would we?), but if we're being frank, we privately believe it's because he doesn't want the car to get dirty.

This is not cake-pie. It's pie-cake. Totally different thing. Still delicious though.

Now THIS is cake-pie.

And what of myself? What do I do when I find myself overtaken by the gods of grump? How do I get myself out of the mire of curmudge?

Some might guess that I would head to the kitchen and scare up some whipped potatoes in double quick time, but no;

I have found to my dismay that while the consumption of such a culinary delight may alleviate a foul mood, trying to cook while cranky can have hazardous and potentially disastrous consequences. Believe me, I have the scars to prove it.


Nope, for me I have found that the ideal thing to do at a time like that is to sit in a comfortable high backed armchair by the fireside, put on some mellow music or an episode of Diagnosis Murder (that Dick Van Dyke just breaks me up!), 

"I'm not a doctor-turned-detective, I just play one on TV."

and sip on a glass of Old Curmudgeon Ale. Pretty soon I am back to my old self and ready to join my compadres for more action and world-saving.

You're welcome, world.

Some-time sourpusses

A big part of being an Unbelievable is maintaining an upbeat attitude. After all, we are on the side of Truth, Justice and the Good Guy way. Why in the world would we have the need to be dark and brooding? Still, we are human beings and subject to our occasional share of the gloomy doomies. That's when it's a good thing there are three of us. When one of us gets sulky, the other two can pin down the moper and hammer his legs with their knuckles until he snaps out of it. On those rare days when two are grumpy, we tend to find the third member's sunshine-iness so obnoxious that we cheer up just to spite him.
Then there are those incredibly rare situations when all three of us are grumpy.
Hoo boy.
When that happens, there's nothing to do but work through it.
That's what we were trying to do when we formed a band...

Me, Michael and Jeff

Yep, we came up with a name to reflect our terrible attitudes, went down to the Discount Softball Liquidators store at the mall for some band uniforms and proceeded to work out our angst in murky, turgid rock songs. Of course, in spite of our lack of formal musical training, we're just so naturally talented and good at everything we try that our songs were all hits and the resultant love and adoration

(L to R) Love and Adoration...or is it Adoration and Love? I never could remember...

snapped us right out of our malaise and we were fine.

Like I said, it doesn't happen often, but it does happen. My colleagues will fill you in...

How Preposterous

It really is amazing to me, and the guys too, that there are still people out there who are dumb enough to believe that there exists a "kit" or a magic button or one-size-fits-all tonic that, once used, automatically makes one an Unbelievable (or at least, something comparable to an Unbelievable). I mean, c'mon - if there was, don't you think we'd have (a) investigated it, (b) reported on it, and (c) debunked its usefulness by now?

Truth is, we Unbelievables have always been Unbelievable - even when we were kids we were Unbelievable and didn't even know it. Although there were times when we would perplex and frustrate our parents and/or teachers to the extent that they would respond with "You are UNBELIEVABLE!!" or "This mess is UNBELIEVABLE!! Clean it up now!!" but that's not what I mean, is it?

Us, in first grade, being Unbelievable as usual.

And those amongst you with an elephantine memory probably remember a while back when we talked about using a kit - The "Sooper Disguise-O-Matic Undercover Kit" to be precise. 

It's the only kit we've ever used in our crime fighting escapades and we intend to keep things that way. Because when you are an Unbelievable, it's only due to years of diligence and study, mastery of all things (especially Unbelieva-Zen) and a passion for justice. In short, you have to be born Unbelievable.

So don't ever waste your time looking for a "quick fix" to make you Unbelievable. Because you can't.

No matter how well you play nude volleyball, make whipped potatoes or drive your cool car.

Got it??

Of course there's no such thing as an "Unbelievables Starter Kit", but if there was...

A starter kit?
To become an Unbelievable?
Ha.
Ha ha ha ha ha.
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!
BWA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!

What a gradually ascending 'Ha-ha-ha'-inducing concept. To believe there could ever exist such a thing as an "Unbelievables Starter Kit" is to believe it's possible to just start being Unbelievable. In other words, such a thing could never, ever exist in any form whatsoever.

But if it could exist, it would probably have the following items AT LEAST.

A VOLLEYBALL

Michael enjoys competing in a number of "clothing discouraged optional" sports leagues, but his first love and primary pursuit is the sport of volleyball. WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH BECOMING A CRIMEFIGHTER? Well, you learn agility, teamwork, and in the leagues Michael plays in, protecting one's dangly bits from speeding projectiles.

WHIPPED POTATOES

There are few things Jeff loves more than good whipped potatoes. What qualifies as good whipped potatoes? Basically, any potatoes prepared and served in a whipped fashion would qualify. WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH BECOMING A CRIMEFIGHTER? An appreciation of good cuisine is essential. Say you're attending a formal, catered affair where your nemesis is trying to woo vital military secrets from a baroness. There's no better way to draw the attention of everyone in the room than bypassing the flaming shrimp appetizers everyone else is enjoying and ordering, "Potatoes. Whipped, not baked." Jeff has done this more than once and it never fails to jar his adversary's confidence.

A CAR 

Specifically, this car, the Unbelievabamobile. With this girl. WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH BECOMING A CRIMEFIGHTER? Seriously? If you have to ask that question, there's honestly no point in you pursuing this line of work.

That's just three elements that would have to be included in any kind of "Unbelievables Starter Kit" and I have no idea how you would even package them together. 

You Can't Put On A Cravat And Instantly Become A Crime Fighter, You Know ...

Dear Unbelievables:

My son's birthday is coming up next month and I thought it would be neat to pick up The Unbelievables' Starter Kit that's been rumored to its debut shortly.

That's not just a rumor ... is it? Send me the information pronto! I want you to take my money!

Thanks! Randolph

Dear Randolph:

I don't know who started that rumor. Clark and Jeff don't know either.

But I wouldn't put it past one (or several) of our arch enemies promoting such a falsehood to fund their arsenals and ideas in any attempt to orchestrate the downfall of The Unbelievables.

You have to understand it's an expensive effort to try and come up with ways for our foes to push our demise. It takes big bucks, we're sure, to work out any ill machinations they might wish against us. To wit, they'll do almost anything to bring in cash to fund their evil, twisted ideas, including putting propaganda out falsely advertising John Q. Public can become an Unbelievable.

Bottom line: There's no such thing.

Unbelievability isn't just for anyone walking down the street. It takes training, perseverance, dedication, a quick wit, a hefty wardrobe and more.

Yes, there are a few token honorary figures who can add "Unbelievable" to their business cards but they're few and far between. (Elvis, Steve McQueen are a couple heady examples.)

The Unbelievables are not about "taking your money." Sorry. 

Even if there was an Unbelievable Starter Kit, it wouldn't be for kids. That would be dangerous and irresponsible.

We hear those XBox things are pretty happening, if you want a suggestion.

Sincerely, The Unbelievables